Not Once, Not Ever
by Kittieth
Summary: Hermione has the perfect life: she has a job, a husband who loves her, and two beautiful children. So why is she so unhappy? It takes the tragic arrival of Draco Malfoy for her to realise the answer: love.
1. Chapter 1

**1. Desire**

_'Where there is no power... there is never any desire to do a thing; and where there is strong desire to do a thing... the power to do it is strong.' _—Wallace D. Wattles

* * *

"You'll love my birthday present, Draco."

"I told you: I don't want—"

Astoria Malfoy leant forward, cutting her husband off in mid sentence with a swift kiss. Gone as quick as it came, Draco grabbed Astoria by her waist, and pulled her into him, feeling the softness of her lips beneath his, her warm slender hands finding their way roughly around his torso.

He wanted more: it had started then. The want; constant want and desire. To never let Astoria ago—to have her forever because he needed her.

Astoria leant further forward, and Draco leant back, landing with a soft _thud_ on their bed. He ripped her shirt open, tearing haphazardly at her bra. Want, want; he wanted more.

He hadn't realised it then, of course; or perhaps he did. Ever since _she_ died, Draco Malfoy had felt nothing. Love wasn't in his vocabulary. Not to say he didn't love his family! They were everything—Scorpius, Astoria, Lucius and Narcissa—Draco couldn't live with one without the others.

But it was strange to him. It wasn't the same as when he had loved _her_. When he had married Astoria, knowing _she_ was watching over him—it just wasn't the same!!  
He hadn't to shown it then: his secret want and yearning. Not with his father, Lucius Malfoy, watching him like a hawk. Searching for some sign of weakness in his only child, hoping to pull it out when he finally found it. But he never did, and at the end of the night, drunk and barely standing upright, Draco's father patted him on the back, and congratulated him. For once he was proud to have a son such as Draco.

But lying in bed next to Astoria the night after, Draco could barely contain it, let alone _hide_ it. Claiming he was 'just sick' to his worried wife, Draco slipped out of the room and ran out of the Manor, across the grounds, his breaths short and rapid.

He had wanted then. He had wanted _her_. The desire to have _her_ overwhelmed every part of his body; swelling, swelling, until he had to cry out for it to be released. He just wanted to love. All he wanted was her.

Astoria leant further into her husband, throwing indifferently the sheets off the bed. Her curves were smooth, body slim and hair so beautiful it was as if it was made from the finest gold silk. Draco touched her cheek, gently pulling her down to him, and kissing her softly.

"I like this birthday present," he whispered. She laughed, all silver and smiles. "I've always loved early birthday presents."

"I thought you would," she breathed back. "Let me—" she stopped suddenly, feeling Draco's hands move down her belly, and in between her thighs. She gasped, and eased over Draco's legs, connecting her mouth with his. He shuddered, holding her tighter, afraid someone might steal her away.

"I want you." The truth spoken at last, and Astoria gasped again, pulling away slightly so she could just see his pale face in the moonlight. He heaved, and whispered again, "I want you. Please."

_Dark and tangled paths,_ he thought. _This guilty act of pity and want. _

Late into the night, Draco held her close, Astoria on the verge of slipping off to sleep. But before she left him for the world of her dreams, she whispered, so quiet her soft voice was barely audible, "I told you you'd like your birthday present."

And she slept, lost in the world of her dreams. But as Draco watched her in the moonlight, the air around him got colder, and he craved her to wake up.

He wasn't happy. He wanted more.

Finally, the desire swallowed him whole, and he slept restlessly, dreaming once again of nothing but desire; the want, the lust, the craving.

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**Authors Note:** This story is dedicated to the beautiful _cedrixfan_ ;) Yes, it is also posted on HPFF—I'm under the name _rozenmaiden_ there.  
Now, if these characters seem a little out-of-canon, please keep in mind that they are all nearly forty. Their world is open to you, and it's only a click away. I hope you enjoy, and if you get time I'd love it if you reviewed!  
Much love,  
_Kitteith_


	2. Chapter 2: Lies

**2. Lies **

_'Everyone who makes a practice of sinning also practices lawlessness; sin is lawlessness.' _—1 John—3:4

* * *

Post twilight.

All of her children were in bed; safe, sound, happy and asleep.

She curled up on the couch, biting down on her lip. The television volume was low, and she could barely hear the movie that was featured that night. Not that she cared. Something was wrong. She felt sick, and nothing she did could get rid of the horror nibbling at her soul.

Maybe she was just thirsty.

Hermoine Weasley stood, wishing she hadn't done so almost immediately. Swaying on the spot, she reached blindly for the couch behind her, feeling the bile fight its way up into her throat, and spilling out across the tile floor. She groaned, holding her stomach, and running to the bathroom.

Hermoine stood there for a long time, shaking, feeling hot all over, and finally falling to her knees, where she was once again sick. _The horror. Oh, the horror of love_.

"Hermione?"

The voice penetrated her thoughts, slashing her down and violently bringing her back into reality. Oh, how she wanted to die. Why couldn't she just leave? This was the reason she was sick all the time. Headaches, migraines, stomach pains and all the like came around on her every time he came home.

Because every time he came home, she knew deep down she had to tell him. She just couldn't. How _do_ you tell someone you don't love them anymore?

"You're sick again," Ron said, distaste evident in his voice. "I really wish you would just go see a Healer."

"Check on your children," she croaked, standing up shakily and walking to the sink. She rinsed her mouth out, washed her face, and feeling a little better, turned to face her husband. "It's none of your business, really, Ronald."

Ron's ears went slightly pink, but he cried indignantly, "It is when you're my wife!"

Hermoine's heart sank. She felt like saying, "It isn't your business when I don't love you anymore." But found herself walking past him, and blindly into the lounge room, where, like a zombie, she started to clean her former mess.

The toilet flushed, and seconds later, Ron Weasley was standing at the door of the lounge room, looking down on his wife as she scrubbed the floor.

"You've changed," he said indifferently. Hermoine shuddered at the coldness in his voice, as though she had been given an electric shock, but still continued to clean. He pressed, "Even Ginny and Harry can see it. It's like you're not there when we talk to you."

Hermoine gritted her teeth. "Are husbands' supposed to talk behind their lovers' backs'?"

"If they're scared, yes!"

Hermoine laughed, hoisting herself off the floor, and glaring across the room at Ron, who still stood, arms folded with jaded indifference. "You're not scared, Ronald," she breathed, her voice cool and detached. "You only care about who will look after the children when I leave."

She had said the wrong thing. She saw it reflected in his face immediately. It was too late to say "if I leave". Too late to correct her horrible error, and Ron's complexion lost all colour instantly.

"You're leaving?" he asked, his voice breaking.

Hermione closed her eyes, wishing she could just say _yes_, but knowing she wouldn't. Not ever.

She crossed the room, wrapped her arms around Ron, and lied, "I would never leave you."

_Lies, lies; horrible, little white lies. _

He kissed the top of her sleek brown hair, ignoring the obvious thinness under her robes as he held her close. "You'll tell me if you want to, won't you?"

"Of course," Hermoine lied softly, silent, irrevocable tears running down her cheeks. "Of course."


	3. Chapter 3: Daphne

**3. Daphne **

_'Never pretend to a love which you do not actually feel, for love is not ours to command.' _—Alan Watts

* * *

Daphne Greengrass was everything Astoria was not—from the way she wore her golden locks, to the very way her frosty lips curled into a seductive smile. When Daphne moved, she screamed for attention. When she laughed, her voice was that of the finest silk. Her nails were long, and blood red; her skin was smooth and milky white.

When she wanted someone's notice, she would trace their spine with her elongated nails, really light, just so they went all shivery. When she spoke, her voice was never any more than a whisper, but everyone always heard her. No one missed a word when Daphne Greengrass would speak.

For Astoria, Daphne was like a more seductive version of herself. "The Devil child," her mother always hissed, when Daphne would be whisked away by her popular Slytherin friends during the holidays. "No daughter of mine."

Astoria felt bad when her mother said these things. She loved her sister—with her whole heart—and knew she should defend Daphne, as Daphne would with her, but she never could. Courage was hard for Astoria to muster. It was like a forbidden topic in her mind; a box that read, DO NOT OPEN: FRAGILE.

Astoria's friends often asked her what it was like to have a sister such as Daphne. She normally never answered; or if she did, it was simply just a shrug. Daphne, to her, was no more important than her cousin in Ravenclaw. She was merely just Daphne. And she loved her.

The envy didn't start until much later on in the two sister's relationship. They were very close, the Greengrass girls. In Astoria's first year, Daphne had screamed with delight during the Sorting, as the smelly old hat placed on Astoria's head cried out, _"Slytherin!" _  
Her first night at Hogwarts, Daphne dragged Astoria across the Slytherin common room to meet her friends. It was good for Astoria, Daphne told herself. If she ever got into trouble with any boys, than she could turn to Blaise, Draco, Crabbe or Goyle for reinforcement. Simple.

But for Astoria, her first day was so much more than spending a night in a magical castle. It was the day she met him: Draco Abraxas Malfoy.

That one boy became her secret desire. Her secret crush. She told no one—_no one_—about it. Not even Daphne.

And that was when their beautiful relationship started to fall.

Unbeknownst to the angel-like Asotria, Draco and Daphne had chemistry—right from the very first time they met. For Draco, Daphne was a myth—a gift from the Gods, given to him to entertain and enjoy. Her company was a pure pleasure to him, which was rare for a Malfoy (and especially Draco). And near the end of their sixth year, Draco finally asked Daphne out—before he almost disappeared forever.

Astoria fell apart.

Hand in hand they would walk into the common room; across the grounds, and in the Astronomy tower at the dead of night. Secrets in whispers, and sweet smiles sent Astoria's heart racing. She wanted Draco—no, she wanted _Daphne_—dead. Hate swelled and swelled inside her, every time her sister came within sight, until it formed into one massive wall of envy.

Daphne, being so in love with Draco, didn't notice her sister's discomfort. In fact, she rarely noticed Astoria's presence anymore; the glares, and hisses when Daphne spoke—the secret prayers at night, wishing Daphne dead.

Daphne only had eyes for her Draco.

Late June was when the war at Hogwarts happened. Astoria was forced out of the Slytherin common room by Draco. He was frantic, looking from side to side with obvious fear. "Go Astoria," he hissed. "Daphne and I will find you, I promise. Be careful."

They never did find her. Astoria found them.

The war was blowing, and everything seemed to be happening in the Great Hall. Astoria had seen He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named for herself; was pushed along by an impatient Bellatrix Lestrange, and nearly pounced on by a werewolf, before Professor Snape jumped out in front of her, wand out and curses flying.

Astoria had found Draco in the Entrance Hall.

"Your parents are looking for you, Draco."

Draco was crouched on the ground, as though hiding from something. Astoria felt jittery.

"Draco!" Astoria stepped forward, ready to drag him to his terrified parents, but she was stopped by the sight of _her_. _Daphne_; peaceful, quiet, dead.

The world went cold, her head started to spin. Daphne was _dead_—Daphne Greengrass, princess of Slytherin, was _dead_. Sprawled on the floor, just another nameless victim killed in the war.

Life mustn't go on.

Five years later, Lucius Malfoy, and her father, Joseph Greengrass, arranged for their only children to wed. The Malfoy's needed an heir; the Greengrass' wanted to be known.

For Astoria, it didn't matter anymore. The thought of holding Draco's hand at the alter didn't please her; when she went to sleep with him the next night after their wedding, Astoria was happy that he left their bed. She knew he was thinking about Daphne.

Because _she_ was.

Everyday she did. And her thoughts were always the same: _I wouldn't be here if Daphne were alive … I killed her … Kill me, God, please. _  
She wanted to die. And the more she wanted to kill herself, the more it seemed Draco fell in love with her. His grey eyes glazed over whenever she spoke; he smiled every time she touched his hand. It seemed to Astoria, that Draco was finally falling for her.

Suddenly, death seemed so bleak. She felt foolish. Maybe Daphne would be happy for them …

Astoria fell pregnant and had a child, surely from the Heavens. Scorpius, they named him.

On his first night home from St Mungo's, Draco whispered in Astoria's ear, "He is _beautiful_. We should have another one … a girl."

A thought crossed Astoria's mind. "Yes … and we'll name her _Daphne_."

Draco smiled. "I love you, Astoria," he breathed.

The thought of death never crossed Astoria Malfoy's mind again.

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**Authors Note: **So there you are :) I thought I might keep you in suspense for the rest xP Please review!!


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